


Ignite

by hurinhouse



Series: Restless Blaze [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 00:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5312246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurinhouse/pseuds/hurinhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir struggles with existing bonds, Boromir struggles to steer clear of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [Fresh Fuel for Charred Coal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5281415/chapters/12190175).
> 
> It won't make much sense without reading the previous sets of the [Restless Blaze](http://archiveofourown.org/series/355190) series first.

The residents of Minas Tirith tacked wooden boards or thick tapestries across their windows. None imagined the enemy getting past the gates, but one astute soldier warned his family of looters from the townlands and once one house barricaded, more followed. Those who had no wood or fabrics pushed cupboards in front of the openings. Many of them bartered what they could spare for bread and cheese and wine. Candles and sweets, formerly sought after items, were of little value as war approached and people from the countryside swarmed into the city. The streets were packed with chaos.

So it was no surprise to Faramir that few people recognized him as he slipped through each gate, including the first, which meant not even his recognition call was blasted. His borrowed horse slowed at each turn, puckered skin at his shoulder pulling with each tug on the reins. He couldn’t be sure how many days he traveled down river before waking from fever, though he was certain his future King would have his hide when he next saw him. 

His wound at Amon Hen hadn't been fatal after Aragorn had gotten to him, but the healing had burned the daylight they could have used to look for Merry and Pippin. They’d camped that night on the bank below Rauros, Aragorn and Legolas to cross the river at first light, while Gimli would accompany Faramir to Minas Tirith in the boat, his fever worrying to Aragorn. But Fara had slipped into it in the middle of the night and pushed off silently, leaving all three no choice but to go after the orcs.

He dropped to the stone path with minimal discomfort, let Mablung hand their mounts to a hand. The guards at the door were tense. He heard his father’s voice as he stepped across the threshold, tight and low. “Erect the gallows on the morn.”

“No!” Faramir recognized this voice as Sam’s, and he pushed past guards that had known him for years, pleased at the sight of him. He saw the hobbit pull away from a guard and throw himself to his knees in front of the steward. “Please your lordship. We aint’ done nuthin’ wrong. There weren’t a sign anywheres that said we couldn’t tress on yer pass or we wouldn’t have, honest.”

“Take them.”

“If yer needin’ t’ kill somebody, kill me, but let Mr. Frodo go-“

“Father!” Every breathing soul in the hall turned as Faramir strode up the aisle. Denethor’s cup fell to the flagstones. 

“Father, do not harm them. They are innocent and in great haste.”

Denethor’s eyes raked over Faramir, warring between disbelief and hope. Faramir kneeled before him. “Father.”

Trembling hands carded through his hair. Faramir could feel Denethor’s need to know he was real.

“What trick is this? I saw your death.”

“Saw, Father?” Denethor’s bewildered eyes changed then, guarded. Faramir knew this mood and adjusted his tone. “Can you not see now that I’ve come home to you?”

Strong hands pulled him up, hugged him tight to his father’s breast. Faramir felt his breath crushed and his chest ached from the pressure. He saw a relief pass over Endahil’s face as the chamberlain stood behind Denethor’s chair. Faramir stepped back to address the Steward.

“You must release them, Father. War is at our doorstep and they have a part to play.”

“They have trespassed against Gondor. As you think so highly of them, you may plead their case. But for now they will be kept under arrest.”

“Father they must leave with all haste.”

“You will not tell me why?”

Faramir studied his father. The man had aged nearly a decade since he’d seen him nine months prior. The valleys through his face were deeper, his beloved gray eyes bright with a fever that had nothing to do with illness. Faramir’s heart ached for the warm memories of strong arms surrounding him, adulation unnamed, but always felt. But what he saw now reminded him of the sensibility Denethor lost each time he’d visited the white tower, though now grown much more absent.

“No, Sir. I cannot.”

Denethor’s jaw tightened. His eyes never strayed from Fara’s face as he spoke in a low tone, “Set the prisoners under lock.”

Faramir leapt behind the chair and drew his knife. He pulled Endahil into a lock, blade at the man’s throat. “Let them go, Father.”

“Captain Faramir. Unhand him.”

“Unhand them.” Then Faramir whispered into Endahil’s ear, “I won’t harm you, Endhail, but Father is a stranger to reason.”

Denethor looked between Frodo and Endahil, glared at Faramir. Fara could see the thought process moving at great speed. He knew his father was Steward first and would sacrifice his chamberlain if needed. But he also knew this shrewd man had grown to trust his son’s instincts. The question was whether Denethor was willing to be upstaged by them.

Denethor nodded once and the guards let Frodo and Sam go. Faramir backed toward the door with Endahil, Mablung at his side. He lowered his voice, “Mablung, take them round Mindoillin. Show them the way to Cirith Ungol. Go.”

Mablung drew his dagger and pulled Frodo through the corridor, Sam rushing after until their footsteps could no longer be heard. Faramir tightened his hold on Endahil. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Fara.” The smallest slice of fear in the old man’s voice saddened him, but he had made his choice now.

He looked around the room. Several guards stood, wary, eyes traveling back and forth between Denethor and Faramir as if taking in a joust. Denethor had sat again, tapping a finger against the arm of his chair, watching expectantly as if waiting for the moment Faramir would realize just how badly he’d errored.

When he judged his time had come to a close, Faramir lay down his knife and knelt before his father, who slapped him hard and ordered him under arrest.

**

Hathol had watched them spar for hours, the North Man and the Outlaw. No swords were needed, no daggers. Their eyes cut sharp enough as they oversaw the work. The ships were still far enough south that the banks were more green than brown, but the heat between these two was oppressive, rippled off them in waves to pull the rest of the men in, distracting them from their fear of the Dead while they sailed upwind, likely to their own deaths. Their quarrel seemed of much more import than who got Captain’s Quarters.

The lean one…Aragorn… Hathol had heard he was the absent king coming to stake his claim, but Hathol was not dense enough to fall for that old joke. He did have a way about him though, kind of lofty and imposing like, through the dirt and all. You knew he was just one of them rangers, but you wanted to follow him, would march straight into the fire just to feel the quality that surrounded him. 

The fair one was moody, avoiding the ranger with a bite in his stance, yet constantly watching him, those green eyes churning with stormclouds. He was just a lowborn drudge like the rest of them, but he sure was a beauty with all that golden sweaty skin, if you fell in for that kind of thing. Not that Hathol did, of course.

Oh the other stole his fair share of glances as well, and you could tell this Aragorn was sizing up the younger one, a bit of an appetite below. But he was cunning, sly about it, biding his time, whereas the cocky plodder couldn’t hide his ire if he were down ten pounds and just rolled a three. You wouldn’t want to cross either one of them, and you definitely wouldn’t want to get between them.

The one they called Bálin had given the men permission to get drunk. Most took the liberty. None wanted to be awake while the Dead walked the deck that evening. Hathol hadn’t gotten as much as he’d have liked, so he woke with a start when he heard footsteps descend the ladder.

It was almost impossible to see with only one lantern near the ladder, but he spied Bálin tumbling out of his hammock as that ranger dropped down to the planks, his eyes searching across the field of snoring men. His sight must have been keen for he quickly crossed to Bálin in a stance of challenge, voice dropped low and fierce, “They’re all drunk?” 

“Aye.” 

“Twas not your place to allow it.” 

“As much as anyone’s.”

“There can be only one captain.” 

“Did I miss the vote then? Ye ain’t King yet so I deem the position open.”

Aragorn shoved, knocking the other man against the protruding bones of the ship, pressing his forearm against Bálin’s neck. Hathol ran a finger under his own collar, the air heating up around him. He glanced around, but it looked as if he was the only observer.

“You wish to challenge me?” 

Bálin struggled, his sleeve caught on a jagged board. He barely registered the question while he tugged desperately on the fabric. 

“Hold!” Aragorn’s whispered command caught Bálin’s attention, stopped his twisting. Bálin’s bearing shifted then, as though a mask slid into place, and his voice turned to venomous honey. 

“Ye shout orders but sulk behind false names. Do ye fear yer title?” Aragorn shoved him away, disgusted.

“The stones you cast are blindly reflective… Boromir.” 

The name rolled off the ranger’s lips like a blackbird’s call in mid-summer. Hathol had heard it before, some history lesson about Gondor, where the only water they held was the thin ribbon of the Anduin. He rarely paid attention to old stories but for those of his own country. In Dol Amroth, they were usually of the sea.

“My status does not affect other men.”

“Only one man.” Aragorn leaned in. “Have you ever led men?”

Bálin, or Boromir, whoever he was, puffed up just then, like a peacock. “I led men to Pelargir; men with no allegiance.” 

“But you did not lead them back.” 

Boromir turned his head toward the hammocks behind him, searching over the men one by one. Hathol wasn’t sure who he looked for. The only soldiers on the ship were those of Imrahil's. The North Men followed Aragorn. 

At last Boromir swung back to Aragorn, bravado forgotten. “No. I did not.”


	2. Chapter 2

The beat of his heart pounded in his ears, the rhythm warring with the steady stamp of the horse’s hooves. Denethor dare not take Silpion with him, for though grand, she was soft, and could not turn quickly like the cavalry horses. He could feel the men’s eyes burning his back, confusion and fear driving them to blindly follow their leader into a hopeless fight.

His thoughts were still spinning from the sight of his eldest captured by Thorongil. Orthanc, perhaps? He’d been able to make out hammocks in the dark of the palantir, similar to those in the cells here below the citadel. The quarreling was not overly violent, nor desperate, but heated, and he thought he could detect more than anger in Boromir’s face. A scheme perhaps? The boy seemed clever. 

The knowledge that both his sons were alive drove him to expend every last ounce into preserving the city. This distant son of Isildur was clever if his plan was to use Boromir as hostage for his claim. But Denethor knew his duty. He would give the palantir itself to have his son back, but he could not give Gondor.

_So it takes forty years for a king to claim his throne?_ So be it, but it would be short-lived. Death was coming to them all. Rohan had sustained a surprising advantage, but Denethor knew Corsairs were on the way. Gondor would go down fighting with the horselords until the last brave man drew breath. Yet he had made certain that Faramir would be in The Halls of Mandos before one orc or Wildman got through the gates; Endahil was well-versed in his duty and would not let Denethor's son be tortured.

The enemy came into view and Denethor felt a surge through his limbs that he’d forgotten. It startled him for a moment, and then he leaned into it, embraced it, rode upon its wave to charge forward. “For Gondor!”

***

Endahil had been at Denethor’s side all of Faramir’s life, loyal to the steward alone. Faramir could scarcely recall a time when the old man was not blending in with the walls and reminding him by example of his duty to his father. This was why it was difficult to believe Endahil was truly setting him free. “Endahil, did Father send-“ 

“You should be fighting next to the Steward. Go.” 

His horse had nearly slipped on the cobbles on the way down circle, so fast he rode. He’d found his father easily, as the standard bearer stuck to the Steward like honey. Denethor easily slew orcs and wild men, using common sense rather than a brute strength he no longer possessed. He had nearly skewered Faramir before he realized who he was. He stared at his son for a mere second before positioning himself so that they could fight back to back. “Endahil will get no salary increase this year.”

***

Father and son made a deft team, cutting through savages and demons like a river raging through dry beds. A thrill ran through Denethor’s heart at this chance he never thought would come. When Faramir was eight, Denethor had taken him on his first hunting trip. The boy was crushed at the thought of killing a creature for “no good reason” and refused to do so for several months. Denethor explained that the people under their care needed the meat, as well as experienced hunters to find it, but he let the matter drop for a time. 

When next he took him out, Faramir shot at rabbits and fowl as he’d been taught, though it took him a time to hit a moving target. When he finally prevailed, from the shadow of an oak Denethor watched him stroke dead fur, tears coursing down ruddy cheeks, apologies offered in a soft tone meant only for the animal. 

Today he saw that same pity in his son’s eyes. But pity did not deter skill. Faramir was cunning. He held back while his opponent made wild lunges, expending little energy to finish the villain when it came into position, all the while arraying himself for the best shot at the next. 

All this in a speed that was dizzying. Denethor found nary a moment to wipe the moisture from his face as he dispatched each enemy, but when the black sails were come into view his steps faltered, his legs suddenly sluggish. The tide had been turning but even with Theoden’s help, they would not have enough numbers to defeat a corsair army. His thoughts gathered on the collar of Faramir’s chainmail, noting to memory the barest spot of his son’s throat. When the time came, he’d need no obstacles to impede his blade. 

“My Lord! Black sails!” The standard bearer pointed to the Harlond, not far from where they fought.

A horn bellowed there. Where he expected to see heinous pirates carrying cutlasses, a handful of northern rangers took the field, led by a figure Denethor recognized instantly after thirty some years. 

Thorongil, or by rights, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Denethor scathed at the sight of him, though a kinstrife would do nothing but hurt Gondor now, even if they came through this battle alive. 

Yet it wasn’t the absent king that took his attention, but that man’s companion. A flutter tingled in his heart, a giddy high he hadn’t felt in decades. Boromir fought in a loop from one enemy to the next, without pause to assess or to breathe. He swung the blade with every ounce of his body and shouts of the Outlaw fighting with the Dead made their way across the field to Denethor’s ears. He noticed then the silhouettes descend from the ship, alight in gossamer colors, gliding at great speed toward the orc army. 

Aragorn followed Boromir into the fray. So the northman had not captured Boromir, but rather the other way round.

“Father!” 

The blow came from his left, his own son knocking him sideways, causing him to trip on the last Haradrim he’d slain. He came up swirling round, blade instinctively slicing air, to see Faramir hit the ground beside him, a southron dart embedded in his shoulder. His vision swam, memories of Faramir’s stand in the woods so far north, when Denethor could do nothing but watch. Not so today.

His guttural cry did little to scare off the incoming Wild Men, but his thrashing blade caused enough damage to ensure revenge. As he stood guard over Faramir, his usual savvy and clever footwork took back row to a sudden bloodlust he’d never experienced, even in his youngest battle days. One by two by one again, he tore into the Haradrim as they came forth, carving gaping caverns into their bodies, blood and gore mingling with the beads and jewels that hung from their flesh.

The sharp sear in his breast pulled him out of his blinding high and he looked down. He’d seen many chests with swords buried, but never at this angle. He took satisfaction in gutting the Wild Man who’d skewered him before the world tipped beneath his own feet. Once his head hit the ground, no enemy bothered to touch him. His eyes sought his elder son, across the field in a fury of steel and flesh and blood. Denethor had known the boy would be spectacular. His birth day had brightened the city, as if the sun shone directly through his wide new eyes, sparkling in challenge to all that was wrong with the world. 

A fresh wave of pain took him and he turned his head to look at Faramir’s pale face. He would have made a grand and just steward, had Boromir not found the king. Boromir had brought the wrong gift. Faramir had turned the true gift away. 

A sudden wind rushed over him, transparent robes of old soaring past, leaving slaughtered orcs and Haradrim in their wake. Denethor spared a missive of gratitude that he’d not had to deliver his son’s gift of mercy. Then darkness led him away.


	3. Chapter 3

Even the Steward’s private room was taken over, the halls so full of wounded and dying men that the healers had to step over them. Putting the Houses of Healing on the sixth circle made little sense to Boromir. How often did you need surgeries this far from battle? 

He stripped off the leather waistcoat he’d won in a skirmish years ago, the lack of air here making the room hot and stuffy. The Steward’s own bed was pushed to the side while several men lay on the floor surrounding it. The silly dolt would be mortified to know he slept in luxury whilst other men made do with cold hard stone. Boromir figured someone had to enjoy it, why not the Steward’s son? 

He watched as Aragorn sat at the edge of the bed, eyes closed, a trembling hand on Faramir’s brow. It had never fully sunk in who Aragorn was until the moment Fara’s eyes opened, filled with admiration and knowing awe directed toward his savior. Boromir’s jaw tightened and a strange sour feeling within his stomach assailed him then. But Aragorn moved on to heal dozens more and Boromir wasn’t sure which man to observe. 

As he stood at the door, he took in Faramir’s clammy ashen skin, cooling from the abating fever. He recalled a fevered brow from long ago, a strap of leather between sore gums, tears collecting on soft puffy cheeks. He remembered watching a woman rub the infant’s back as she held a hand out for Boromir to join them. 

“Come, tell your brother a story,” she’d coaxed. He wished he had a story to tell now, but Fara had drifted off again and Boromir could truly use some fresh air.

**

It’d been almost three days since Aragorn had called Faramir out of the Black Breath, days filled with the agony of remembrance. He’d woken first on the wet grass and saw his father, managed to crawl to him. He hadn’t been able to stop the stinging tears from clouding his vision. There were things he should have said, should have done, and he recalled none of them at that moment, could only try to ignore the realization that the one person left who had known him all his life was gone. 

Now he rested in his father’s chambers, sifting through the chest at the foot of his father’s bed, healing for no good purpose. He’d heard the excited whispers among the nurses before he’d left the Healing Houses, that the Outlaw alone had carried him all the way from the field, some levels by horse, some by foot. But he’d left right after and now was nowhere to be found. Most likely another tall tale.

He opened a small box and gasped. Flashes of golden skin and musk and careless laughter rushed through his mind. The thrill of forbidden trysts. Pain. He rubbed the fleshy part of his palm.

“Endahil, this horse. Where did it come from?”

“Your father always kept it in that chest.”

“This is the missing piece from my set.” 

“It is.” 

“Why would Father have kept it? Why not give it to me?” 

As he looked closer, he noticed this silver horse was different than his. It was undoubtedly of the same set, but the horse’s legs had been slightly crushed.

“The soldiers used it during the searches for your brother.” At Faramir’s questioning look, Endahil continued, “Your father had taken Boromir to watch the blacksmith cast the horses… ” 

It hit him then, why the horses had been on his shelf since long before he was old enough to play with them. They hadn’t been made for him, but for Boromir. 

“Father said the blacksmith had broken the mold before he could make the final horse.”

“The man had pulled a horse from the fire; it slipped from his tongs. Boromir reached down to pick it up- ” 

“- and burned his palm,” Faramir’s head reeled and he shut his eyes. 

“You’ve heard the story, then. The blacksmith feared My Lord would hang him, so he fled. The soldiers used the horse during their searches years later when the little lad went missing.”

The horse fell to the stones and Faramir made no attempt to stop it. He could detect Endahil retrieve it, knew the man resented Faramir for his father’s death, but he could not pull himself from the shock long enough to care.

**

Reserve horses were used as pack ponies, along with strays found on the Pelennor. The animals were confused at their odd cargo. As the company prepared to leave the city, Boromir could hear the damnable brutes whickering in protest. He hadn’t eaten that morning, stomach rebelling at the early hour, so he stole a snack from the nearest saddlebag while the privates packed the food, careful not to get too close to hooves or teeth. As he turned to join the front of the column, his eye caught on the neighboring mare, her markings especially beautiful. 

Dark and light swirls mingled in his memories with arrows and howls and an unlikely connection between two frightened beings. The words to a lullaby he wasn’t aware he knew sprang into his head and he found himself caressing the blue roan’s withers. 

The first part of the first day, Boromir walked beside the mare. She seemed to gravitate toward him each time he fell out of line, and Boromir would chide her gently. He saw Aragorn turning in the saddle far up front several times, watching, but he couldn’t be bothered by it, hadn’t the room for the notion in his head with all the others floating up there.

At supper the next evening, he was summoned to present himself before the Captain of the Host. _Summoned._ If Aragorn considered Boromir some kind of subject now, he’d slit him, end of the world coming or no.

A sergeant led him away from camp, beyond a stand of trees and into a clearing. Aragorn sat astride a fresh horse, waiting, the blue roan Boromir had walked with all day beside him. Boromir fumed, “I am not yer pupil.”

“Tis good, as I’ll prefer you in other capacities.” The sergeant shifted stance uncomfortably and Aragorn pointed at the roan before Boromir could voice his outrage. “That fellow has seen battle. He lost a good owner on the Pelennor and has been reduced to pack pony.”

“If I ‘ave ever been astride a ‘orse, it were a long time ago.”

“Then we have not a moment to lose.” The annoying captain gestured the sergeant forward before pulling his own reins, trotting off into the field toward a gallop.

The sergeant held the roan, waiting for Boromir to mount. The Steward’s black sheep glared after Aragorn for a good four laps before he hoisted into the saddle, telling himself two attempts was not too awful. He wasn’t sure why he bothered to stay. The sergeant spoke humbly and low, informing Boromir on the roan’s verbal and knee commands. Then he backed to the edge of the clearing. 

They practiced for two hours of the dial, Aragorn alongside Boromir, encouraging, instructing. When Boromir would lose control, Aragorn would ride up against him, knee to knee, direct him on steadying his horse, placing his reins. Boromir thrilled at the sensation of air whipping through his hair, the bruising his ass took as hooves pounded into the clay not enough to diminish the excitement coursing through him. He’d been without ties his entire life, but this rush tasted like a freedom he’d never known. 

He moved ahead of Aragorn, gloating at his feat until the man surged even farther, tipping his chin politely as he passed, causing Boromir to laugh anew. 

At sunset Aragorn slowed the pace, allowing the horses a cool down for several laps around the clearing. Boromir was alarmed to realize then that he hadn’t spared one thought to his angle since he’d climbed atop that horse, hadn’t planned an escape, an excuse, a mode of operation, nor a sly reply to any unwanted inquiries. He was slipping. 

They turned the animals over to the sergeant and ate a slim meal before parting ways, Aragorn to the tent Boromir knew the man would share if he’d only accept, Boromir lying beneath a cloudy night sky. He imagined the stars he knew so well, all those evenings he’d drifted off shortly before dawn. 

No fires en route to Mordor. No bawdy stories to ease the dread. Just nervous recruits and bloodthirsty veterans looking for glory.


	4. Chapter 4

The servants called her cold, and Faramir wanted to believe them. He buried the instincts that told him her indifference was merely a radiant mask to hide pain and grief, convinced himself she wanted to be alone. His heart no longer had room for empathy.

They had spent afternoons in the garden, he at one end, Eowyn at the other, both gazing to the east, soaking up what little sun broke through Mordor’s haze. He could have had the grounds to himself, but she was sister to Rohan’s new king; it would be erroneous not to share. Besides, her presence distracted him from his own bitterness and sorrow. He’d sensed that the darkness would not keep, and told her so, though he barely cared himself.

“I thank you, Sir, for your kind words, though they are just pitied echoes within a dead dawn.” 

Her dismissal felt like an insult. “I offer no pity, for I have none left; but instead, understanding.” 

“I will take with me your recognition then, and bid you free to heal your own troubled mind.”

With that, she left him alone on the ramparts, and Faramir was glad of it. He’d had his share of chasing wild beasts. He felt spite rushing to his throat anew as he glanced toward Mordor. Let them all run as far as they wished. His tracking days were over.

**

Boromir had developed a keen sense of hearing, the need to detect coming trouble making it a necessity. So it was not difficult to discern the whispers that ran through camp after their second day of travel, a welcome distraction to the youngest soldiers from the cold damp that lingered after the rains. The rumors about his identity spread more quickly after his private lesson in the clearing, the men realizing he must be more than just a ragged outlaw for the future king to take notice. The sergeant had heard Aragorn call Boromir by his true name, confirming suspicions. 

Boromir resented Aragorn for the pitied curious looks he’d received, those Aragorn seemed to pointedly ignore. When a private mentioned the Steward’s grim fate, not knowing the heir was passing toward the king’s tent at that moment, Boromir found his water skin quite slippery, and open. No one had the courage to contest his _inadvertent_ attack on the poor lad.

He hadn’t needed the reminder. He wasn’t sure he would have recognized his father on the Pelennor if it hadn't been for the premium chainmail and the fact that the man was in the same position as the last time he’d seen him, a far cry from his featherbed, though. The extraordinary leader he’d dreamt of all these years, cut down just like the lowly soldier next to him, hatchet buried in his chest, a line of blood trailed from his mouth down his cheek. No regal allowances for his station. Boromir had never considered the privileges of aristocracy before then.

The worst part was holding his father’s body down with his boot as he pulled the hatchet from his chest. A voice in the back of his mind screamed at how unfair it was, after just meeting him. But who deserved fair? The standard bearer? The sewer drudge? Certainly not the wretched man in the tent whom he was about to berate.

The tent was large enough for a cot, a table, and chairs. A bit larger than the Steward’s great bed, what he remembered of it. There was no chance of avoiding the flesh of the would-be king, the man bent over the makeshift wash basin, rough blanket round his hips, hands scooping water up to his face. Boromir had jumped into the cold stream with the rest of the men, the caked mud itching to distraction. Now he wished he could return, the gooseflesh upon Aragorn’s back composing most of his view. 

His cheeks blushed hot and he thought back to the hours after the battle. Aragorn had healed dozens of men, consoled dozens more as they made their way toward their last gasp. A day later he mastered a rock of evil magic and charged the Captains of the West with a death march, brandishing the same authority as when he’d directed the Dead.

Said authority mocked Boromir’s wavering admiration, branding him a love sick pup when he had no comprehension of the concept to begin with, unless it was defined by a primal need of another’s company. Since one could not love one’s own brother that topic was pointless. He’d lost his taste for men some twenty years past, until this quietly controlling brooder before him showed, as much a vagabond as Boromir.

Aragorn fumbled for a towel, startling Boromir from his thoughts, and he handed over a cloth from the bed. 

“My thanks.” Aragorn’s voice was lyrical, and Boromir felt his face heat up like a child’s once more. When his cock followed suit he blushed anew and his thoughts grew darker, ashamed of his lack of control. He may as well be sent back to spar with boys and old men. 

“I’m sorry.”

Boromir shrugged. “I’ve played the servant before. Tis no difficult role.”

“No… ugh, your wordplay. I meant your loss… I knew Denethor.”

Boromir’s throat thickened at the unexpected subject. “Well… good that someone knew ‘im.”

“We did not get along, but he was an excellent leader.”

Boromir shoved aside odd sensations of desolation, grasped for what he knew. He stared at the freckles on Aragorn’s shoulders, almost reaching out, but as the man turned, his righteous morality ignited a gathering fury within Boromir’s mind.

Aragorn’s eyes went straight south, hungry, forcing Boromir’s softening member to refill. He’d worn a long tunic, but it was difficult to hide his condition. A smug feeling kindled inside as he saw Aragorn’s similar state, but it began to choke off when a hand slipped into his shirt and pressed, grey eyes making a request Boromir had declined countless times in his youth.

He felt strangely commanded, though no words had escaped the other mans’ lips, and the fleeting consideration to yield was what made him lash out. He shoved Aragorn against the tent’s pole, scowled at the amused grin. As he ground his hips into the other man’s, Aragorn mirrored him, but also leaned forward, Boromir’s lips his goal. 

Boromir tilted his head away and ground harder, deftly detoured from a second kissing attempt by biting Aragorn’s neck. Aragorn’s hands came up to frame his face then and Boromir’s heart rate skipped, his breath abandoning him in spurts. He batted the hands away and crushed Aragorn onto the cot, unlacing his own breeches, eyeing the other man’s. 

Aragorn stayed his hands. “Know that I expect equal exchange at some point.”

Boromir growled, worked on Aragorn’s laces, what started as distraction quickly heating his loins. “We will be dead in a day. No time for recompense.”

He took Aragorn into his mouth then and all protests died away. He was out of practice, bedding only women for twenty some years, but the skill came back to him easily and soon Aragorn was panting and writhing beneath his roving hands. He scooped up a dollop of the ranger’s salve and his hand crept to Aragorn’s cleft. 

At the first touch, Aragorn gasped, fists clenching the blanket beneath him. Boromir marveled at Aragorn’s reactions. Always in control, disciplined in the face of chaos. Yet here he let go, willingly. 

He slowed then, his lust cooling to hot desire. He tried to be gentle, though had little knowledge how, and Aragorn slammed teeth together as a finger worked in, then more. The tight heat gripped him as he slid in, hands resting on either side of Aragorn’s head, and soon the man pushed up for more. Aragorn eyed his mouth, and Boromir found himself leaning toward him, but stopped short and changed his angle. As he drove in again and again, tried and failed to soften his thrusts, not once did his brother’s beautiful face curse his thoughts.

**

The silence bothered Aragorn most. During his command at Rohan decades earlier, the sturdy horsemen had chattered merrily en route to battle, as close as was safe, confident enough to brag of maids back home and physical feats. But their silence now, along with that of the Gondorians, reminded him of the usual grave bearing of his rangers, and that did not bode well for the morale of men untrained for stealth.

He’d occupied too much of his scrutiny on Boromir, the man’s many flaws weighing against the attraction and benighted respect Aragon couldn’t seem to stamp down. After the incident in his tent, he was unsure whether he could trust Boromir on the road, let alone at the Gates. Ingrained tendencies were difficult to shake, especially when one felt cornered. Though Aragorn had been the one to give himself over, the stubborn Húrin had become even more resentful than he’d previously been. His brooding glares gathering with avoidance.

Sauron had just backed away, his threat echoing, when Boromir charged upon Aragorn from within the column, a wildness about his eyes. Aragorn checked his grip, a horrid fear at what he might need do rushing suddenly upon him, mournfulness for what might have been. But splendidly reckless as Boromir was, he could not believe the man had a death wish.

“Draughts!” the renegade yelled within earshot. His mount had nearly swiped Aragorn’s, Boromir so new to riding, but he circled back round clumsily and repeated his plea, “Draughts!” He pointed at the columns, fighting to control his mount. “Your formation is faulty.”

_Faulty._ Aragorn spared a curse at the fool’s arrogance, barely realizing his relief at not having to cut him down.

“If you form a checkerboard, the elves and Rohirrim can stand, firing bolt and spear first.” Boromir’s gesture moved toward the Gondorians. “The swordsmen can surround them, stopping the strays that get through whilst they fire.”

Aragorn hesitated. Leaving pockets of open ground for the enemy to fill seemed risky. But the extra space would ensure less of their men killed by their own rampant blades. At any rate, the point of it all was distraction, as victory by battle was impossible, so better to forge good relations with this possible ally, hopeful for more.

“Make it so!”

“Draughts!” they both bellowed down the lines then, pacing back and forth to be heard. “Swordsmen surround darts and spears!” captains and sergeants repeated farther in as the massive wall of orcs surged closer. “Draughts! You know it! Form Draughts now!” Startled faces young and old stared back, soldiers at the front quickly scrambling to form new ranks.

At the first “Loose arrows!” Aragorn knew the plan would work, for a while. More darts skewered the beasts than lances, but with large pikes newly imbedded in their shields, the untouched orcs quickly dropped the cumbersome tools, leaving themselves open to death. 

At the front, Aragorn could not spare a glance toward Boromir, the man already within the fracas on the other side of the Host. He hoped this tactic would turn the tide, and he willed Frodo to hurry.


	5. Chapter 5

There he loitered at the door: Faramir’s cherished past, his never present and what looked to be a torturous future. The brother who never taught him to fish; the lover who never learned to bend. Damn him back to Mandos, Faramir could not connect the two.

“You’ve come to claim your post?” 

Boromir recoiled and Faramir rued the bitterness in his own voice. The stewardship had always been a faint and dubious future, until he met the king. Wise and just, Aragorn was the brother Faramir had always imagined and he looked forward to serving under him someday. 

Boromir relaxed back against the frame and shrugged. “Wot do I know of diplomacy?” 

Fara could see Denethor in him now that he knew to look. The set in his jaw, the way he deflected attention from himself. “Afraid to come near me… Brother?” 

“Why? Are you infectious?” Boromir swaggered farther in, the same old carefully careless indifference. Faramir made to rise as the other reached the couch, but a wave of dizziness stayed him; and there was a faint scent.

“Ye needn’t stand.”

“I’ll not have you hover over me.”

Boromir looked at the couch, barely large enough for two men who _didn’t_ have a chasm of tension between them. He sat close to the edge.

“The king will expect you to take up your rightful post.”

“Aragorn expects a lot of things. ‘e can’t ‘ave them all.”

The familiarity in Boromir’s tone brought the source of the scent surging forward. Pipeweed, the spice of the man Faramir had grown to admire over the last few months. In all that time, all those close quarters, he’d never noticed the scent rub off on any of the fellowship.

“Yer mending well. “

That sinful velvet voice tipped the scale and Fara lashed out. Boromir easily caught his fist as it made weak contact with his jaw, held his wrist fast. Faramir struggled, anger rising like the Wave within his chest, grief for his father, for the end of Bálin. 

“Our father is dead, loyal to his last breath, and you have lounged with the man who wronged him.”

“Wronged ‘im?”

_Wronged him._ No. Faramir had never believed Denethor’s bitter accusations about Thorongil. Perhaps it was not loyalty that drove his thoughts today. An expanding hardness beneath his free hand dealt him a surge of hope. He looked up to eyes wide with shock, darkening with desire. 

 

Fara had kissed dozens of men and women of various skill over the years, none of whom defied him like this; none of whom he needed like this. He rubbed his hand across Boromir’s lap, tried to capture his mouth, and the man pounced, flung off Faramir’s grip and claimed his face with both hands like Fara was a treasure he’d been afraid to touch for too long.

Boromir’s lips were soft as they pressed cautiously, the precarious feather touch making Faramir light-headed with need. The age-old dream of tying Bálin to the white tree sprang forth, where Faramir could map golden skin at his leisure, and show his lover how to succumb. He scarcely breathed, “Bálin.”

Boromir stilled, eyes squeezing shut, stamping out a barely controlled blaze. His hands fell away as he stepped back. “I would not be able to stop.” 

Faramir’s heart sunk. “We can hide it.” Had he actually said that? He was better than this desperation; wiser.

“We would know.” 

“Did you not think I should know earlier?” 

“Fara. We cannot.”

Where had his whore gone? He stood then, willed his legs not to waver as he limped toward the desk.

“Endahil can inform you of your duties of office.” His tone was polite and firm, a skill his father taught him well. He heard a sigh, then the sound of retreating footsteps, slow and dull within the dead stone chamber.

**

The walls seemed to close in on Boromir the further down he went, as though a trap were laid, though the tapers looked no closer together than when he’d started down this corridor. The air was heavy and dead, and he hoped he’d not taken a wrong turn and lost himself in this maze that was the citadel. 

“Boromir!”

He turned, a group of men in an alcove he’d missed before. His uncle wore a swan upon his breast, his boots outfitted with the shine telling of the prince that he was. Boromir wasn’t even certain if he’d scraped all the gore off his own, now two weeks since Sauron fell. He hadn’t spent more than a few short hours in the lavish room he’d been assigned, so afraid to touch anything that he’d gone down circle and spent the night at an inn.

He couldn’t detect arrogance in Imrahil’s speech, but the man had no fear of showing his station. The fellows around him quieted as Boromir approached, some looking away, others offering an obligatory smile. 

He’d tried to refuse Imrahil’s gifts at Cormallen, but Aragorn had insisted Boromir’s own clothes were in a state to be burned. Old instincts to grab and run crept up then, but he stamped them down to do the “proper” thing, according to Aragorn. The troublesome wretch had not yet returned to the city himself, sending Boromir forth in Imrahil’s party. Uncle and nephew had barely had a chance to talk, thank the Valar, or whoever was in charge.

“You look refreshed.” Imrahil glanced at the clothes.

“Aye.”

Imrahil looked down the corridor from which Boromir had emerged. “I see you’ve had the chance to meet your brother. I suppose that sounds odd to you; ‘your brother.’”

Boromir suspected this was what Faramir had called diplomacy. Perhaps this Imrahil did care; he spoke as if Boromir belonged and he couldn’t think of a reason the man could benefit from him. But accepting compassion was foreign, the sound of it choked off the air around him, the manner in which to react escaping him. 

“You must be anxious to settle in.”

“Settle in?” One of Imrahil’s comrades turned his head and coughed, gold embroidery upon his tunic sparkling in the sun. But his uncle smiled warmly.

“To your new capacity. As Steward. Surely Aragorn will share the paperwork once his elf-maid arrives.”

He blinked like a fool at the man before smoothing into a quick lie and excusing himself. Relation or no, Boromir didn’t know Imrahil of Dol Amroth and had no desire to. It didn’t take long to collect enough provisions to see himself back toward the south of Gondor, though what he’d do when he got there anyone was free to tell him. He looked down at the roan and caressed her coat, the beast relaxed in canter… alive. He laughed aloud and almost cried at the joy of it.

He remembered crying once. The Tinker had whittled him his own bowl, presented it to him on what they guessed to be the eve of Mettare, complete with an extra slice of bread and a block of cheese. He’d still had memories of his old life that year, the patterns of tapers that lit up the celebrations, running through glittering ribbons with the other children, puppets and fire-breathers dazzling the young crowd. He remembered gifting his mother with a basket he’d woven with the help of the cook, or the nanny, whichever’s wooden teeth had turned green. As he sat in his father’s lap, strong arms keeping him safe, the joy in his mother’s eyes had made up for the wobble of the basket when she sat it next to his brother’s cradle. 

Happy thoughts, they were. He wasn’t sure why he’d cried so hard and so long, the Tinker soothing him with awkward pats on his shoulder. The old man shushed nonsense into his ear, promised there was no need to bother with Mettare in the future. Most of the reflections had left him by the following winter, his true name escaping him by then as well.

He shoved the memories aside and spurred his horse further south, passing Cair Andros where he’d crossed with Imrahil after spending an enlightening week at the Field of Cormallen. He’d shaved with a true razor. Legolas had been quietly reintroducing him to letters, and he’d found much of it coming back to him. Aragorn had treated him as an equal, requested his opinion on matters of more import than the troops’ provisions for the journey back to Minas Tirith. 

But there had been a question in the ranger’s eyes, a powerful longing in the way he brushed against Boromir needlessly when they pored over maps. Boromir’s body answered in tiny quivers that no one but Aragorn could detect, though he took pains in trying to hide it from the man. Days were filled with feelings he’d never known were real and he’d almost gotten used to being called by a different name. 

But back in the city he was still just Bálin, and Bálin and the city were dangerous mix.

**

The skies had wept all week but the clouds stayed their tears on the day of the ceremony. Theoden still occupied a place of honor within the stone walls, but today belonged to the people of Minas Tirith; a day to let go of the past, to pave the way for new beginnings.

The citizens had had no excessive warmth for the Steward, but a great respect swelled in most of their hearts. The man was stern, cold in fact, but just. He was not given to walking among the people, but his board was free to those who trekked the circles, and his ear was ever open, whether or no he granted one’s request.

Daughters of council members handed out pouches of poppies to as many as they had flowers, though some residents brought their own. The Closed Door opened and the Silent Street was soon red with petals tossed by women, children and the men still in the city. Some children carried cut squares of cloth or flour sacks to represent the Stewards, though very little had the means to bleach them white to match the actual banner.

The Steward’s son walked behind his father’s body, grave and proud, a man who’d grown up in the eyes of the city, who’d been a promising hope for a safer future throughout the years of dread. The citizens’ eyes warred between him and the soon to be king, who had delivered that future. The ranger king walked slightly behind the acting steward out of respect, and there was much discussion among the crowd about whether they were still allowed to call the Lord Faramir a ‘prince.’

But the talk for weeks after was of the son who’d not been present, the prodigal that had come back from the dead to thieve and to terrorize, to save and to defend. Opinions of the man varied from those who claimed that he alone had defeated the Dark Lord and those who thought the man a lowly cutthroat, probably not even the real son of Denethor. The Lord Faramir had refused to take the title of Steward as long as his brother yet lived, though he agreed to act on his brother’s behalf, until the day he should return. 

Most who heard this declaration could see the resigned doubt in the young man’s eyes.

**

The guards chided Faramir during the early walk to the armory, until he threatened a change in assignment. They were right to object – he was still somewhat weak and had no business sparring. But his fellow diversion had been absent from the garden since long before the Host returned, allowing beloved, condemned faces to invade his mind. So he thought he might try his hand at stringing a bow again.

Leaving the guards at the entrance, Faramir turned a corner toward the scraping of metal and stone, curious as to whom else would be here at this hour. As he turned a corner he saw her. He watched from the shadows as Eowyn gripped the hilt of the practice blade, dulled steel a fitting parallel to her recent weakness, even after all these weeks. The tip quivered in the air, barely three inches above the floor, the hilt hovering between her kneeling thighs. Her arm shook, the sling tossed aside, and her cheeks flared a bright pink as she tried to lift the sword from the floor. 

A puff of air rushed out of her as the blade fell. It had not been the first time. She swallowed tears anew, and grimaced as she tried to raise the sword once more. Faramir watched the determination in her face, the stubborn, untamed will that refused to surrender control. Her beauty softened the lines of fortitude that she wore like a badge. This time when the blade dropped, she cried out briefly, her voice raw with pain. Her chin dropped to her chest, her arms limp upon her skirt. The thought of defeat tore at Faramir’s heart, but more than that, he was enthralled with her conviction.

When he stepped forward, her eyes shot up, defiance warring with humiliation. He knelt before her and reached out slowly. She was wary, but did not panic nor draw away as Bálin always had; rather, she held her head up boldly as he swiped the tear from her cheek. Faramir smiled before he could prevent it, and he shifted round behind her, waiting for the blow that did not come. 

He stretched, placing his arms beneath hers, his strength behind hers. His shoulder ached but together they lifted the sword, one meter, two meters, held in threat at their straw enemy. Faramir gripped her forearms harder and they pushed, running the culprit through. The hilt clamored to the floor, the sound not so hollow this time.

A slight constant tremor ran through her body then, and his arms wrapped round her, his chin on her shoulder, moisture mingling on their cheeks. She did not push him away. 

 

Finis.

 

Last set coming soon.


End file.
